Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Of course, Brother. Do you want to do that now?’

‘No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘only when I am ready.’

‘I will arrange that,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Now, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you would like to see the gardens?’

Both agreed and got to their feet. Lady Anne sidled up beside Athelstan with a spate of questions about the ‘Great Miracle’. Thankfully she fell silent as Sir Henry led them out through a postern door into the spacious gardens which ran down to the curtain wall and the majestic Watergate fronting the Thames. Athelstan could only marvel at their extent, which was as great as any demesne around a shire manor. There were orchards of apple, pear and other fruit trees, and an impressive falcon fountain, the great bird of prey cast in bronze, perpetually hovering over a broad, lead-lined pool. There were grassy areas, herb plots, flower beds and tunnelled arbours fashioned out of coppiced poles lashed together with willow cords. Over these grew vines and climbing roses, a tangle of greenery awaiting the sun. Athelstan was particularly taken by the arbours, trellised pentices furnished with turf seats and benches of Purbeck limestone positioned to provide the best view over the gardens. Sir Henry, full of pride, showed them the carp pond, broad, reed-ringed and well stocked, before leading them into an ancient copse of oak and beech which provided a dark woodland aspect. At its centre stretched a broad glade around a deep green-covered stagnant pool. Athelstan walked through it all and smiled as he recalled his own small garden often savaged by Thaddeus the goat or Ursula the pig-woman’s gigantic sow. He wondered if Hubert, their resident hedgehog, was sheltering in the hermitage, a small wooden dwelling fashioned especially for their garden-dweller by Crispin the carpenter. Lady Anne returned to question him about the miracle. Athelstan finally excused himself and went back to Sir John, who stood on the edge of the mere staring sadly down at the thick green slime lacing the water.

‘This garden is very beautiful, Brother, but I wish spring would come. On my father’s farm I used to go out and worship the first daisies of the year. I would sit and listen to a thrush sing its first sweet song of spring. I’d study the apples growing fat, the hazelnuts branching fresh and green. I would walk and watch the brown gorse move under the breeze or glimpse a fox, a trail of red, sloping through ripening corn. I’d lean against old garden posts covered in holes where a host of hot-eyed sparrows would peck for grains. I love spring.’ Sir John glanced up, tears in his eyes. ‘But not this year, Brother! This year will be different! I know that! No maypole dancing but murder and mayhem.’ He waved around and beat his breast. ‘Brother, I think these murders are linked to the coming revolt.’ Cranston ground his teeth. ‘Nothing, my good friar, is what it appears to be. There is something very wrong here. I feel it in my water, in the beating of my heart and the flowing of my humours.’

Athelstan stepped closer. ‘Sir John, you are poetical, even mystical.’

Cranston grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Little monk.’

‘Friar, Sir John.’

‘What’s the difference? Listen.’ Cranston drew him even closer. ‘I have been lost in thought about what has been happening here but also about your great miracle. I have sent our green-garbed Tiptoft throughout the city, alerting all the weird and wonderful in our underworld to be vigilant about a man burnt down the entire right side of his body. Believe me, Brother, if any change was made it would be discovered. I did the same for Vanner. I’ve posted proclamations on the Standard at Cheapside, St Paul’s and the great gibbets at Tyburn and Smithfield, but there’s nothing.’ He withdrew his hands. ‘I suspect you are correct. Vanner is dead. He wasn’t responsible for last night when that poor bastard died. The Ignifer passionately believes Lady Isolda was innocent and so he, or she, is intent on dealing out a grisly death to all who connived in Isolda’s condemnation. Yet who could that be? Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia wax prosperous on Sir Walter’s death? Buckholt is glad to see her gone. Rosamund the maid is a noddle-pate, surely? Lady Anne Lesures doesn’t have the means – I cannot see her scuttling through the streets. More importantly, Lady Anne believes Lady Isolda was as guilty as the Lord Satan himself. Finally, she and Turgot were with us last night. So we come to other possibilities. Falke, who passionately believed in her innocence? Parson Garman or,’ Cranston shrugged, ‘is it someone else with their own motivation?’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied, ‘I accept what you say but I would add that these are not murders of the heart but the will. They are, I suspect, rooted firmly in the past. So much is.’ He breathed. ‘Look at me, Sir John, a farmer’s boy, a son who broke his parents’ hearts by running away to join the royal array, coaxing my younger brother to accompany me only for him to die outside Moyaux.’ Athelstan lapsed into silence; he did not wish to go down that well-trodden path. ‘That experience,’ he whispered, ‘shaped me. So, what dark forces from the past breathe life into all this murderous hate?’ He felt Cranston’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Miracles, Brother?’

‘We certainly need one here, Sir John.’

‘No, the charade at St Erconwald’s?’

‘You suspect it is trickery?’

‘I know it is. I accept what you say, Brother. We believe a crucified Jew rose from the dead, that during the Mass bread and wine become his glorified body and blood. But St Erconwald’s? Let’s be honest, Brother, that little parish entertains more mischief than a hedgerow of sparrows. All my couriers and searchers, Tiptoft, Muckworm and the Sanctus man, are on the alert. They are not only hunting Vanner but also a cripple, not a Londoner but a Yorkshireman burnt down the entire right-hand side of his body.’ Cranston paused. ‘I believe there is mischief afoot, Brother, but, so far, I can’t detect a thing. I have spies all over this city, yet nobody has reported anything.’

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ They turned as Buckholt hurried towards them. ‘Master Falke is here and wishes to have words with you.’ The steward led them to where Falke was waiting in the small buttery. The lawyer was pacing up and down, his blond hair wet with sweat, his face all flushed. Athelstan could smell the wine even before the lawyer stopped his restless pacing, his face only a few inches from the friar’s.

‘Master Falke, you have been drinking?’

‘Most of the night,’ the lawyer slurred. ‘I heard what was said last night.’ Froth bubbled from his lips. ‘Now, you listen,’ he hissed, ‘to what I know. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia are no more than scavengers. They were eager, desperate for Sir Walter to die without an heir. They quietly rejoiced at Isolda’s arrest. Sir Henry was his brother’s henchman. I don’t care what he says, I am sure he pays more than lip service to the Upright Men.’

‘Master Falke, what are you implying?’ Cranston asked. ‘That “The Book of Fires” might have been stolen by Sir Henry as a bargaining counter with the Upright Men? Do you have proof?’

‘No,’ Falke dabbed at his mouth, ‘nor do I have proof that Buckholt is secretly a rebel. Did you know his father served with Sir Walter when our noble merchant was a mercenary? I tell you this,’ Falke swayed on his feet, ‘Buckholt never liked Isolda, nor did Sir Henry. Lady Anne Lesures may act the grand lady, be all compassionate and caring, but she upset Lady Isolda by refusing to listen or accept her plea of innocence. Maybe Lady Anne has forgotten that she was responsible for Isolda’s marriage. I could tell you more. Parson Garman liked to visit Sir Walter and I suspect their relationship lies tangled in the past. He too served in the Luciferi. Oh, yes!’ Falke spread his hands, moving to the left then right. ‘You have seen the splendour of this house. Like the paint on a whore’s face it hides all forms of filth and lewdness.’ Falke put a finger to his lips. ‘Sir Walter was hot, not for Lady Isolda, his God-given wife, but her maid Rosamund, Rosa Mundi,’ he spat out, ‘Rosa of the World. Yes? More like Rosa Munda – Soiled Rose.’